And In the Streets You Run AFree
by obsetress
Summary: Five times Santana ran away, and one time she came back home. AU about halfway through "New York." Written for llyfrgell as part of gleefemslash's fic exchange over at livejournal.


_One___  
><em>_

Brittany knew. Brittany always knew. Brittany knew, and Santana knows she knew, and she's pretty sure Brittany knows Santana knows she knew, but she really doesn't like wasting her time playing this stupid "I know you know I know" game, and so when Brittany had given her that look as she slid her shoes into a plastic tub at six in the morning, Santana had just looked back, unaffected.

Brittany had seen in her suitcase plenty of times over the course of the past few days, and sure, maybe Quinn had too, rifling through it to find Santana's nail file, and probably everyone else had seen as well in that rat trap they'd called a room, but they either didn't notice or didn't care that Santana had packed a whole lot more than a few days' worth of clothes.

And sure, maybe it was dumb to go all the way to the airport with Mr. Schuester and the rest of the New Directions when she was staying behind in New York, but her parents wouldn't bat an eyelash at the extra thirty dollar taxi charge any more than they had when they'd cancelled her ticket home because she'd spewed some bullshit about wanting to stay in the city to look at colleges.

Brittany had tried again, glancing back over her shoulder at Santana as she'd gone through the metal detector, and, setting it off, murmured a hasty apology to the bored-looking TSA agent in front of her and backed up to slip a silver charm bracelet off a slim wrist and drop it into a bucket - Santana had looked down then - before moving to step through the detector once more, this time without difficulty.

When Santana had looked up again, Brittany, along with the rest of the club, were gone.

Santana had tried Brooklyn first - it was apparently one of the closest things New York had to a lesbian colony, according to Google - only to get right back on the subway to Manhattan less than a few hours later, desired sneer replaced by a somewhat gaping mouth and general dazedness.

_Nope_, she thinks to herself later that night, once she's lying on her stomach on clean sheets, staring blankly at the TV in front of her, _way too hipster_. She wasn't ready for that much plaid until at least her sophomore year of college.

And so she'd settled in Tribeca: sure, there wasn't really anything that great there, she'd noted, except for a lot of bougie restaurants and overpriced hotels, but she needed a place to stay and food to eat and had one of her dad's credit cards in her wallet, so why _not_ drown herself in luxury?

She makes a mental note to look up which subway train she needs to take to get to Soho the next day. She needed some new clothes. Maybe one plaid shirt wouldn't be too terrible.

Glancing up from her cuticles at the TV in front of her, Santana wonders idly if she could pass as a Kardashian.

_____Two___  
><em>_

The first time Santana actually has the balls to go out - and it's not like she has anything to be afraid of, she reasons, because there's like, _no_ chance of running into anyone from Lima in New York, let alone at some lezzie bar - it's a disaster.

She's used to Puck, at whom she doesn't even have to bat an eyelash anymore, or the cashier at Lima Liquor missing an incisor who'll sell her whatever she wants in exchange for a wink and, if she's in the market some hard stuff, an occasional glimpse down a low-cut top. Never let it be said Santana Lopez didn't put her feminine wiles to good use.

So on Two Dollar Margarita Tuesday, when Santana is standing shoulders back, chest out, and flashing her most disarming grin at a man who could've passed for Azimio's uncle, on a corner of Christopher Street, she's shocked when all she receives is an even, unwavering stare, and the tightening of a pair of crossed arms.

She stares him down for a good thirty seconds, before throwing an arm in the air. "But I'm totally 21!"

"No ID, no entry."

"I go to bars all the time!"

"That's great, but if you're going to this one, I need to see some ID."

"But I'm _so gay_!" She blurts out.

The bouncer's eyebrows raise, but his face remains otherwise unchanged.

She guesses the fact that she's a a lesbian bar would make that pretty obvious. "Look," regaining her composure, she leans in towards the bouncer, lowering her voice, "you and I both know I'm the best looking girl here, and it would be an absolute _tragedy_ to this fine establishment if you didn't let me in."

"It would be a tragedy to the establishment if I let you in without an ID and got it written up."

She scowls at him, and her mouth is open to make a quick retort, but before she can start, there's a light hand on the small of her back and a soft "'scuse me, darlin'" in her ear, and she's stepping aside for a tall, thin blonde girl, who flashes a grin at the bouncer before presenting him with a Virginia state ID before slipping inside.

Santana doesn't miss how the girl's fingers slide all the way across her back, lingering on her hip as she walks in.

In front of her, the bouncer coughs, and she's jerked out of her reverie. She's never backed down from a fight, but she figures this place may be worth coming back to, and she's not about to get kicked off the premises before she's even inside. Talk about blue balls.

"I'm still the hottest one here," she mutters, and, turning her back, walks away.

She could swear she hears a mumbled "debatable" behind her.

___Three___  
><em>_

Quinn calls her the next day.

Santana is still in bed when she calls, focus divided between the sausage links catty-corner to the stack of pancakes on the tray in front of her and the real housewives of New Jersey. "What?"

"Santana." She's using that voice she gets sometimes, the one Santana hates.

"Amber Portwood? To what do I owe the honor?"

"Cut the crap."

Santana sighs. "What do you want, Quinn?"

There's a pause. "I want you to come home."

"You?"

"The glee club wants you to come home. Brittany wants you to come home. I'm sure your parents miss you. Today my mom asked-"

"So all these other people want me home?"

Quinn's voice is hesitant. "Yeah..."

"How come you're the one calling me, then?"

There's another pause, then a sigh. "And maybe I want you to come home, too."

Santana barks out a laugh. "Why do _you_ of all people want me home?"

"I'm not allowed to miss you now?"

And suddenly this whole thing is weird to Santana. "Not really, no."

"Well I did."

"You're too sweet, Quinn."

"Look, if you're just going to be a bitch, skip it and just tell me you're doing okay so I can hang up."

Yeah, definitely weird. "Yes mother, I'm eating my peas."

That shuts Quinn up for a while, then: "I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"What you did for me in New York. You know, the haircut and all."

Santana pushes her breakfast tray off to the side - and damn it if she didn't finish that sausage later, because she may be into chicks and stuff, but there's no way she's going vegetarian - and reclines back onto her pillows, stretching her legs out in front of her. "It's whatever."

"I'm being serious right now, Santana."

"It's whatever, Quinn. I might as well get used to scissors, right?"

Quinn is silent, and it's a loaded silence, Santana realizes, and maybe she would've noticed the weight to Quinn's words earlier, had she not been too busy remembering how Quinn had been that day: how her hair had smelled like vanilla, and how she'd curled into Santana afterwards, yawning about what her mother might say when she saw.

And so Santana is quiet too, thinking about Quinn, and if she realizes her hand is drifting lazily up her thigh, she does nothing to stop it. Instead, she just bites her lip, thinking about what exactly it is Quinn's saying - or not saying - hand toying with the drawstring of her pajama shorts now, rolling it between her fingers before tugging it lazily down.

"Santana?"

"I'm still here."

"Good."

She's thinking about Quinn in the locker room now, all those times after Cheerios practice when they'd go to shower and she'd catch her looking and accuse her of it, only to have Quinn sneer back and give her a disdainful look. Moreover, though, she's thinking about the rest of Quinn: not the sneer, but her legs, and her white skin, and her smooth stomach, especially before Beth, and about her hair, that blonde hair, and those blue, blue eyes-

And she's thinking about Brittany.

Santana hangs up the phone without so much of a word, Brittany's name on her lips moments later.

Quinn doesn't call back.

___Four___  
><em>_

She can't find an ID on such short notice, and she's sure as hell not about to fork over two hundred dollars to some man in China she found on the internet, so Santana figures the next logical step is to stand a block over from the bar and latch onto an incoming - and obviously of age - group.

It doesn't work.

She'd always wished she could brag about being friends with a bouncer someday, but by "friends," she'd hardly meant a relationship forged from her constantly being denied entrance.

A few tries and several choice Spanish words spat at the bouncer later - and truth be told, she only knew a few select phrases, ones her grandma used to use to scare her into eating her green beans when she was little - Santana decides to give up.

She's standing on the corner, arms crossed tightly across a skin-tight green dress, waiting for an empty cab to pass by, lips pursed. She'd learned the hard way that most lesbians weren't actually into an exaggerated lesbian chic look; _in fact_, she'd thought, remorsefully hanging up a zebra-print blazer a few nights before, _they seem more inclined to bitch about shit stereotypes and then turn around and demand an Ani DiFranco song from the DJ._

A set of headlights sweep across the street then, and her arms shoots out, hailing the cab. Santana's inside, leaning forward to tell the driver the address of her hotel (_and maybe it's time to find somewhere a little more quaint,_ she thinks, because even her parents are bound to notice the charges after a while), when she feels someone slide in next to her. She's about to protest; "find your own cab, Ellen" is at the tip of her tongue, but a cheerful "mind if we share?" in an all-too-familiar Southern lilt stops her.

Santana isn't one to forget a face - not so long as it isn't painfully unattractive, anyway - especially one deemed debatably more attractive than hers, and she recognizes the freckles and blue eyes instantly. "Whatever, Aileen Wuornos."

"It's actually Alicia."

"Whatever."

"Couldn't get in again, huh?"

"Look, just because we're sharing a taxi, doesn't mean I want to talk to you, okay?"

"We don't have to talk."

"Great."

Santana's acutely aware of the long, thin fingers playing with the hem of her dress, and as they graze her thigh, she's only mildly aware of how grateful is she'd shaved that morning, and she's definitely not aware at all of the thumb rubbing against the top of her hand or her fingers tracing the paler digits underneath, and especially not of the weight of both their hands, fingers intertwined, resting in her lap.

They don't talk until the cab pulls up in front of Santana's hotel, and Alicia insists on paying, which Santana shrugs at, but she stops as soon as Alicia gets out of the cab behind her. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Walking you to your room."

"I thought we were just sharing a taxi."

She gets a shrug and an "I like you."

There's a pause. "I'm not _going home_ with you."

"I'm not asking you to."

Santana isn't sure why else two people would share a cab, let alone walk each other home if they weren't planning on sleeping together. That's the only reason boys had ever bought her dinner, even if it was just a greasy hamburger, and she remembers plenty of occasions she'd volunteered to drive Brittany home from Cheerios practice only to end up in her bed a few minutes after pulling into the driveway, if they hadn't just skipped the formalities altogether to end up in the backseat. She isn't about to sleep with this woman; she's starting over in New York, damn it, and she doesn't want to be that girl anymore.

"I just want to walk you to your room-" There's a pause and Santana realizes she'd never told Alicia her name.

She's not sure why she says it, but she does. "Santana."

Alicia bursts into a wide smile before bounding forward to open the door, gesturing inside with a flourish. "After you then, Santana."

Alicia slips her hand into Santana's once they're both inside, squeezing gently and grinning at her, and it's comfortable, Santana thinks. She discovers leaning into Alicia in the elevator is nice, and that she likes it, and maybe it's not too bad at all, being gay and open about it. The elevator doors open on the sixth floor and they step out, making their way down the hallway, stopping in front of Santana's door.

Alicia smiles at her.

"Thanks," and Santana's smiling shyly in spite of herself. This doesn't suck too much at all.

But then Alicia's leaning forward to kiss her, and it's just on the cheek; it's not even anything serious, but Santana's arms are shooting out and pushing her away, and she's blushing as she takes a step back from the other girl, hands frantically searching through her purse for her room key. "The fuck are you doing?" She hisses. "Someone could've seen!"

"There's not really anyone-"

"There's a bellhop back there, what if he came around the corner and saw us?"

"Santana-"

But Santana's key is out and her door is opening, and, in a flourish of skintight green cotton-polyester blend, the door is closed and there's the sound of a deadbolt clicking into place.

___Five___  
><em>_

Alicia has her up against a wall, and Santana loves it.

Don't get her wrong, Santana is perfectly capable of being in charge, but the way Alicia's lips are trailing down the column of her neck and the way she has a firm hold of Santana's wrists, pinning them to the wall above the two of them is _really_ doing the trick.

Alicia's knee sneaks between her legs, grinding upward, and Santana gasps a little bit, grateful she hasn't moved to a smaller hotel yet, because she plans on making _full_ use of that king-sized bed, and pulls Alicia tighter against her, nails digging into her back as Alicia nips at Santana's pulse point.

And suddenly, she's being pushed down onto the bed and Alicia's pulling off first Santana's shirt and then her own, straddling Santana and leaning down to kiss her again before dragging her tongue - and shit, Santana loves that tongue already - down her body and moving back up again to kiss Santana's shoulder.

_Fuck,_ Santana's glad Alicia had accepted her apology.

Lithe fingers are unzipping Santana's skirt before she even knows what's going on, and sliding it off her hips and onto the floor and Alicia's lips are on her stomach, moving downward until she's pulling off Santana's underwear now too, and pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her thigh. Santana shudders and Alicia grins up at her, pleased with herself, and Santana can't take it anymore, she just needs Alicia's lips, and her hand is tangling in that blonde hair and her head tips back and her eyes flutter shut and _God_, that feels good.

She finally opens her eyes again once she's come down from her high, grinning down at the girl at the foot of the bed, but when all she gets is a grin in return and freckles that are too few and hair that's too wavy and eyes that are all too blue, the only thing she can do is stare.

Alicia frowns. "You okay, baby?"

Santana isn't okay.

Brittany's been on her mind since she'd left, and Santana hasn't been able to stop thinking about her, even if she didn't realize it until just now. It's a bullshit idea, Santana realizes, to try to take pride in who you are when you can't even admit what you want. Especially if it's something you didn't even think you wanted anymore at all. _This sucks,_ she thinks. _Being an adult sucks_.

"Baby?"

She wishes they were at Alicia's apartment so she could just run away.

"Santana, you okay?"

"Can you just leave? Please?" Her voice is smaller than she would've liked, but Alicia nods, sliding off the bed to find her shirt on the floor, slipping it over her head and her shoes onto her feet.

She doesn't say anything, only smiles sadly and kisses the top of Santana's head before she leaves, and the moment Santana hears the door close behind her, she stops trying to be an adult, and she cries.

___One___  
><em>_

One week later, Santana's staying at some hole-in-the-wall place on St. Mark's. She's given up on Tribeca, and while the she realizes the Village is probably a pretty great locale, she'd just settled for the cheapest room she could get. It's not like she was planning on leaving it, anyway.

She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, struggling to master the art of chopsticks with her two-star Thai delivery and watching E!, trying to figure out if that's a mullet or a wig on Kristen Stewart's head, when there's a knock at her door. She hasn't ordered anymore delivery, and didn't call maintenance, and she's not entirely sure if she should be afraid or not.

But against her better judgement, she's opening the door a few seconds later, and she has to be dreaming, because standing in front of her is Brittany.

"I came to bring you home," she says simply when Santana just stares at her, "okay?"

Santana nods numbly, and Brittany sweeps in around her, starting to pick up the clothes strewn all over the floor. She pauses when Santana doesn't move, though: "Santana. Are you going to come help me? We're on a limited schedule. I told my mom I was going to Applebees for lunch like five hours ago and she wants me home in time for dinner."

It isn't until the two of them are sitting together in the airport waiting to board their flight home that it hits Santana. "Hey Britt?"

"Yeah?"

"How'd you know how to find me?"

Brittany just looks at her as if the answer should be obvious. "Lord Tubbington told me."

"Has he stopped smoking yet?"

"No. But I'm looking into a Nicotine patch for cats."

Santana _mm_s in response, and the two of them are quiet for a minute before Santana speaks again. "Hey Britt?"

"Yeah?"

This time, when Brittany turns to look at her, Santana leans forward, and, in the middle of the very crowded airport, gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Tell Lord Tubbington thanks."


End file.
